


An Iced Heart

by deanicanfixthat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Big Brother Dean, Bisexuality, Brotherly Love, Castiel Feels, College, College Castiel/Dean Winchester, College Hockey, College Sports, College Student Castiel, College Student Dean, College Student Sam, Columbia University, Declarations Of Love, Destiel - Freeform, Destiel Fluff, Doctor Castiel, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Family Issues, Feels, First Dates, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Heterosexuality, Home, Homophobia, Homosexuality, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, I have gone mad with the tags help, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Love Confessions, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Maybe - Freeform, Medic! Cas, Multi, New York City, Nightmares, OTP Feels, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Dean Winchester, POV Third Person, Protective Dean Winchester, Rating May Change, Requited Love, Romance, Roommates, Self-Acceptance, Self-Denial, Self-Destruction, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Self-Sacrifice, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Tragic Romance, Trust Issues, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2815478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanicanfixthat/pseuds/deanicanfixthat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the stifling heat of August, Dean Winchester meets Castiel Novak, a bright medical student from Columbia University.</p><p>In his disdain for making new friends, Dean had coasted through his time at The City College of New York without bothering to form any relationships. But now, in his senior year, a problem has arisen. Dean has been told that he cannot stay in the university dorms, however he can't afford to rent an apartment on his own. Determined that his brother live in the freshman hall and have the full college experience, there is only one solution for Dean - a shared apartment with a stranger.<br/>Enter Castiel Novak.<br/>Lacking in both social skills and friends, Castiel is a quiet individual whom Dean quickly overlooks. However, although neither man is looking for anything more than a roommate, a strong friendship slowly forms between the them as they learn of each other's rocky pasts.<br/>Societal expectations and familial desires both play their part in the forming of this friendship as it slowly descends into something neither man can control, nor in any way desires to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/130179170@N02/16082992842)   
> 

“…And this guy, he’s coming at me from the side and trying to get the puck. And another dude is attacking from the front, tryna defend the goal. But I slice to the right and lose the guy on my side and the guy in front dives to keep up, but the skates hit the wrong angle and he goes down, but the puck is still heading towards him so I scoop it and it flies over him as I skate around him and then the goalie comes forward and—”

A booming laugh cuts through Dean's words.

"Don't tell me you're serious." Sam shakes his head and grins at his older brother before adjusting the cardboard box in his hands. The New York street on which the two brothers are stood is bustling and the sound of the city rises above them as the hot, damp air clings to their skin. Summer was peaking.

"A dream?” the younger brother continues. “Really dude?"

Dean nods his head. "Sammy, it's going to happen, I'm telling you."

"A dream which…which predicts the future?" Sam's smirk deepens as his eyebrows slowly rise beneath his short, choppy fringe.

Dean shrugs. "Stranger things have happened, can't argue with that."

Sam's smile stretches his face to the maximum. "But Dean, really? You can’t even ice skate, let alone play Hockey. And yet you think this dream is going to come true? Kinda far-fetched if you ask me."

Dean claps Sam’s shoulder with a sly smile and a shake of his head, nearly dislodging the box from his brother's hands. "I wasn't asking you, Sammy. Now get your ass upstairs."

Sam rests the box on the edge of their car's trunk before straightening up to get a better grip on it and then hoisting it back into his arms. "I'm living on the bottom floor, Dean." His words are snarky and fall from a smirk, yet they're edged with an informative tone.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Just take your stuff to your room, okay? I'll follow you in. Have you got your key?"

The younger brother smiles gently. "Dean, I can manage."

But, the older brother just gives a long stare known all too well to his sibling—one of a protective brother, not yet ready to let go. So Sam leaves it be and turns around, a step behind a few of the other buzzing freshmen moving in to the dorm, all of whom seem to be carrying the entirety of their worldly belongings in crates and in bags. As Sam disappears within its doors, Dean slowly lifts his gaze up the building that towers eight storeys high and casts a sizeable shadow even in the afternoon sun. It’s old red brick with white window detailing and a white arch over the entrance, which sits just inside a pair of tall, wrought iron gates.

As he leans against the heated metal of his car, Dean closes his eyes and sighs deeply.

"Long day ahead of you, bud," he whispers to himself, before clenching his jaw. With aching muscles, he raises his hand to massage the back of his neck, dipping once or twice beneath his grey t-shirt, in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure.

Sammy's first day shouldn't be so hard. Moving in is meant to be joyous, even if there are a few tears—not that a Winchester would ever shed any. But anyway, even if that wasn’t the case it didn’t matter because twenty-five minutes.

Only twenty-five minutes. That was all it took to walk from his apartment to Sam’s dorm. Even less if Dean ran.

 _Twenty-five minutes_ , Dean reassures himself as he grabs a couple of bags and a box from the backseat of the car before locking it and heading inside the college building.

It’s like history repeating itself as Dean steps inside the dorm—rowdy eighteen year olds line the halls and somehow make the air simultaneously sweet and stale. It had been four years since Dean had graced a building like this with his unforgettable presence. Now a senior in college, Dean lived off campus in the city, but the common attributes of university dorms were never easily forgotten. Worn walls, white lights, brown carpet to hide any stains—well, either that or grey lino. But, as he starts walking forward, Dean hears a distinct _clanking_ like a horse. He looks down at his feet. Wooden floors.

 _Obviously_ , he thinks with a roll of the eyes and well-meant smirk.

A few feet inside the big, glass, double door entrance there’s a T-junction. Dean pauses. As clammy teenagers push past him in the notice-board lined corridor, Dean riffles through his mind.

_1…_

_1...6…? No…_

_17…? Yeah, A17 something._

He glances at the signs above him and turns to the right hallway before heading down it. Dean’s eyes graze over the door numbers as he stomps past them—mildly scared looks being given in return to any doors he peers into. A mixed hall, it seems; both guys and girls litter the corridor and rooms.

As Dean continues on with his quest to find his younger brother, he glimpses inside a room decorated to high heaven with old rock posters. Kansas, AC/DC, Metallica, Bad Company, Rush, Black Sabbath, you name it.

 _Sammy_ , Dean silently prays. _If you make any friends in this hell hole, at least make sure it's a person with good taste._

Dean smirks at the blonde girl sat cross-legged on the bed beneath the posters before the wall returns to his view and he continues striding forward.

"Dean! Dean! Dude, over here!" Sam voices rises above the crowd from somewhere off to the left and behind Dean.

He swivels his head, locates his brother, and gestures with his head in recognition before spinning the rest of himself around and knee jarring all those around him with the swinging bags in his hands. He nods a mediocre apology and heads over to Sam who's leaning against his doorframe and smirking again.

"Smooth," he laughs.

"Not my fault it's a state fair of idiots in here. You'd think it was playtime for toddlers."

"I'm the same age as them, Dean."

"Yeah, but you've always been a old guy in a teenage meat-suit. Real Freaky Friday," he remarks as he pushes past Sam into the small, narrow room. The air is stagnant from being locked up over summer, but it's comfortable enough. Between the door and the window on the wall opposite is a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a bed, and then a desk directly beside it before the room curves back around to the door, each element of furniture mirrored.

"No roommate yet then?" Dean glances at the empty left-hand side of the room as he walks over to the bed on the right-hand side, which Sam has already placed his box on. Carefully, he starts unloading from his arms the things he’s carried in from the car.

"No, not so far." Sam shrugs as he walks into the room and sits on his desk. He pushes the sleeves of his green plaid shirt back up to his elbow and checks his watch. "It's only early though. He'll probably turn up later."

Dean nods and, having finished depositing the items, glances around the room again, taking everything in this time. Cobwebs in the top corner, ink stains on the desk, rust on the window's metal latch. A solid wooden door. Bare red-brick walls, just like the hallway. An air of artistry and knowledge.

"What about yours?"

Dean frowns and returns his gaze to Sam. "What about my what?"

"Your roommate."

Dean shrugs with one shoulder, dismissively. "What about him?"

"Well, have you heard from him at all?"

Dean stuffs his hands into his jean’s pockets and shakes his head. "We're not gonna be best buds or anything. It's only a shared rental. I don't need to hear from him. I've told him where the place is and how to let himself in."

"Yeah, but don't you think you should be there? I mean, you're going to be living with him, Dean."

"And you're going to be living with this bunch." Keeping his hands in his pockets, he gestures with an elbow towards the loud hallway with students dashing past the open door. "I don't see how it's any different."

Sam tilts his head to the side and softens his eyes. "Dean…"

The older brother looks at his younger sibling for a few seconds before he closes his eyes and nods once. Opening his eyes again, he pulls a complying, humorous smile with an underlying and strained edge.

“All I’m saying,” Sam continues, “is that maybe you should at least try and befriend this one. You remember the last guy, right?”

Dean’s face loosens and he laughs out loud. “How could anyone forget him?”

The younger brother grins. “Exactly. I just think it would be for the best if, y’know, you tried this time. I mean, especially because it's a different situation. It's not just a shared room in a dorm; you're sharing an apartment, a home.”

Dean shakes his head, the ghost of amusement still gracing his features, as he settles into the realisation that he doesn’t have the heart to argue with his brother at this moment in time. Instead, he looks off to the side of Sam and out of the window at the hot August day. The room faces the opposite way to the street and so Sam has a clear open view of the college with a stone courtyard directly outside his window.

Smiling gently, Dean says, "Alright, Sammy. You get your way."

Gesturing with his head, Dean leads the way out the room’s door and back down the corridor with Sam at his heels. "You've still got a box or two in the car—"

"I’ll carry them," Sam interjects, stepping outside.

The noises of the city in the summer hits them like a wall as they exit the building—horns blaring, music blasting, people laughing. Loud, raucous sounds that somehow seem soft in their garishness. Reassuring, recognisable, pleasant. Sounds the ear longs to hear. The sound of people, the sound of hope, and the sound of moving on and moving forward. The sound of a new start.

Dean nods at Sam’s words and unlocks the car before they throw a backpack over Sam’s shoulders and place one of the two remaining boxes in his hands.

Dean grabs the last box. "I can take—"

"Dean," Sam says, half laughing. "Honestly, I'm okay. You don’t need to coddle me—"

"I'm not coddling you," Dean states, insulted. Then, with a smirk and a pointedly raised eyebrow, he heavily tosses the last box on top of the one Sam is holding. The younger brother‘s knees buckle slightly but he remains standing and gradually straightens back up.

"Alright,” Sam remarks, amused and looking down the few inches to his brother’s face. “Well, I have to sort out my things so why don't _you_ go and make sure that your new roommate…" He hesitates, waiting for a name.

"Mr C. Novak," Dean complies, overly enunciating each syllable.

Sam frowns. "Wait, you don't even know his first name?"

"It’s a rental agreement, Sammy."

"You need to know his name, Dean."

"I'll learn it when I meet him. It's not important right now."

Sam's booming laughter is back. "Alright. Dean? You're officially banned from my dorm until you can tell me your roommate's favourite colour."

Dean jolts his head back, flabbergasted. "What?"

"You need friends, Dean." Sam's puppy-dog eyes are back. Dean’s weakness, and his brother knows it. The older brother tenses his shoulders and looks off to the side with his jaw clenched in dejection, knowing exactly what's coming. "I know you like to think that it'll all be okay and that I'm enough," Sam continues. "But you need more people in your life."

Dean shakes his head. "Sam…I'm fine."

Sam nods his head in return whilst rolling his eyes, the boxes still weighted in his palms. "See what-"

"Sam." Dean steps backwards and heads around his car, onto the city street, before opening the driver's door and looking pointedly at his brother. "I'm fine." He taps a flattened palm on the car's roof. "But you should get inside and start making friends with those maniacs." He winks at his brother. "Cute chick in room A179."

Sam rolls his eyes again. "Dean…"

But the older brother just laughs and sits himself down into the car, the worn fabric and air comfortable and reassuring around him.

Sam's face appears at the shotgun window so Dean leans over and winds it down.

"I mean it, Dean," Sam says. The box on the top begins to slip and he panics when it almost falls to the ground, but then he catches it with his shoulder at the last second.

Dean nods in reply to Sam's statement and then dips down further into the passenger seat so he can, again, look up—this time around the window’s metal edge—at the tall building rising above the two brothers.

It’s silent between them for a few moments.

Then, “Columbia, Sam.”

Sam grins and copies his brother’s action. “I know.”

Dean eyes flick to the right, taking in his brother’s ecstatic profile. A small lump forms in his throat but he coughs it away and settles back down into his seat. “Right then,” he says, gripping the steering wheel with his left hand and glancing through his wing mirror at the cars and cabs driving by. “Better be heading off. Roommate and all that.”

Sam has turned to face him again. He smiles and nods. “I’ll call you later. Let you know how I’m getting on.”

“Dude, no chick-flick moments.”

The booming laughter. “Agreed.”

Dean waves goodbye with two fingers as Sam straightens up and steadies his boxes. Starting the car and shifting his gaze between his wing mirror and rear view mirror, Dean slowly pulls out onto the New York City street. Classic rock blasts from the stereo and Dean looks back in his mirror after only a few feet, but the sidewalk is now empty—Sam has already gone inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Moving about a mile an hour, Dean trudges through the clogged New York streets; the car humming smoothly beneath his skin and a distinct rattling coming from deep within the air vents. Surrounding him on all sides are rusted, aching cars melting beneath the sun and melding into new forms like snowmen in the spring. To his left, cars inch forward in the other direction and are filled to bursting point with belongings—evidence of more new students itching to move in to the dorms and finally get on with their lives.

Dean inquisitively glides his gaze from car to car, trying to search within each of their windows with the distant wonder that one of the people he lays his eyes upon may be Sam’s roommate—may be the new person at which Sam will roll his eyes humorously and let out that infectious laugh when a ridiculous pun has been uttered. May be the new person with which Sam will talk complete rubbish at all hours of the morning when his roommate’s nightmares strike and Sam is still awake, reading some non-fiction book for pleasure. May be the new person with whom Sam will steal a six-pack and drive to the highest peak of the town just to watch the lights flicker and dissolve into the morning sun.

Dean sighs heavily and quickly, hitting the bottom of his palms against the top curve of the steering wheel.

Sam had just moved to the dorm: it wasn’t a different country. Sure, he wouldn’t be around as much, but it was Sam—he wasn’t a ditcher. He’d stick around until you told him to piss off, and then a little while after that.

The summer had been a momentary haven with Sammy living in Dean’s new apartment, but once again the brothers were split; orbiting different spheres of life with paths rarely crossing—but that needn’t matter. For the first time in years, they were in the same city and just twenty-five minutes apart—something neither brother let on as being worth more than any scholarship to Columbia, and any collection of childhood memories.

_But still..._

Dean’s gaze unconsciously flicks to the left, continuing their documentation of each face that could be a student’s.

A short boy, dark hair, Eastern features, wide smile.

A curvy blonde, rosy skin, contagious giggle, virulent eyes.

A red head, pointed features, owl eyes, doting smirk.

The cars surge and each of these faces are lost in the sea of bustling commuters and roaring horns. Dean’s lane begins to move and he pulls the car back into drive to conform to movement of the world around him—simultaneously pushing himself to ignore the ball of worry that has knotted itself deep within the pit of his stomach and has started continuously causing waves of unease.

Change is good.

 _Change is good_.

A new mantra, perhaps.

And so, as Dean steals a resolve not to think of Sam’s new roommate—because, hey, Sammy’ll introduce him at some point—he focuses on the music that blasts from the aged speakers of his car, the sound rich and velvet and leaking into the world around Dean as it melts away the taunting nags of his subconscious.

Taking a right a few blocks down, the road ahead of Dean becomes suddenly clear of the majority of traffic and so he instantly pushes down on the gas, feeling the hum of power surge up from the asphalt through the solid wheels; up through the gleaming black exterior into the intricately woven anatomy of the car. The rings, the cylinders walls, the valves, the crankshaft, the bearings—all of it moans initially before settling into a deep, low purr as the car glides forward, splicing the heated outside air and cooling it so it hits Dean with a blast of refreshment through the open window. And, for a moment, Dean closes his eyes against the empty street and breathes deeply as the scent and life of New York and all the possibilities that first enticed Dean to it fills his lungs and seeps through his alveoli into his bloodstream.

_Change is good._

The glare of the sun beats down on the hood of his car and flickers on his closed eyelids, causing light to shimmer through the skin and turn his vision red.

 _Change is_ good.

A few more blocks down and over, Dean slowly drifts off to the right and parks along the curb outside of an apartment block completely forgotten by the city and, probably, the rest of the world. Unmemorable and indistinguishable, it sits six storeys high with another floor sinking below ground level. The exterior was originally a pale brown but, with time, has become sun-bleached to a shade somewhere between off-white and pale beige. With its broad stance and ionic columns framing the entrance way, the air of history and former glory around the building is apparent but, alas, all has now disappeared and left nought but broken window fans and rusted fire escapes. As a result, the building sits sunken in despair like a hallowed widow of better times.

Alongside Dean’s, a couple of other cars litter the side of the street and so, as he lifts himself out of the car and locks it shut, Dean eyes them up in an attempt to see if there are any unusual ones that may belong to his new roommate. However, a mixture of still being new to the area and being unashamedly uninterested in his neighbours has left the majority of cars un-etched on his mind and thus the result of the analysis unclear. So Dean turns, casting a swift glance up at his building, before heading around the car and onto the crumbling sidewalk. Quickly, Dean dips within the cooler shadows of the buildings and edges around the potholes before, finally, he heads up the cracked and slanted front steps of his apartment block and enters it.

Once inside, the pressurised humidity becomes overtly evident, instantaneously dampening the small of Dean’s back with sweat. Ignoring it, he spirals up two flights of the creaking staircase—the worn wooden rails of it still shining in hooks and crevices with evidence of previous care—and steps out onto the third floor.

The corridor is short with only two doors occupying space along the bare walls. A stretch of pale wooden flooring extends from where Dean stands at the top of the flight of stairs and reaches out like branches of a tree underneath the doors to map the layout of each of the apartments—carbon copy rooms somehow offbeat from one another. Here, in this hall, the heat is even worse than it was before as the window at the far end of it is jammed shut from the aged swelling of the wooden frame.

Feeling the light prickle of sweat droplets beginning to run down his skin and collect in pools, Dean moves faster—rushing to his apartment door and quickly fumbling with his keys in his clammy hands. Once the solid door has swung shut behind him, Dean peels the t-shirt away from his skin as the nerves in his pores reach out for some sense of relief before hitting the wall of more humid air. Throwing the damp shirt aside carelessly, Dean strides across his living room to a low window and flicks the switch on his window fan, before finally collapsing in front of it with his back pushed against the mesh armour of the blades. Slowly, his eyelids slide closed over an out-of-focus gaze.

This city was ridiculous. This building was ridiculous. This summer was ridiculous. This _heat_ was ridiculous.

Dean’s limbs loosen and relax as he sinks further against the fan, trying to get all the cooler air that he can. Stuck to his fingers are small flakes of dark blue paint from his front door, and so Dean focuses on rolling them between the pads of his thumbs and forefingers, trying to take his mind away from the prickling, aching heat.

Kansas had always been hot in August. Hell, it was _summer_ ; it was supposed to be that way. But New York existed in its own world with its own micro-climate constantly devising new ways to torment its inhabitants through inescapable natural forces. This time around it had decided to create a heat wave—temperatures hitting upper 90s, if not in the 100s, with stifling humidity to boot. And renting an apartment in a ramshackle old building unequipped with AC just added to the pressure.

Dean shifts slightly, arching his low back so more of his skin gains access to the cool air.

Sammy had it alright—Columbia was high-stakes and the upper notch of the scale of classy. The buildings were constantly being refurbished. Sam’s dorm was scheduled to have up-and-running Air Conditioning by the end of the week; the last one before the entire campus was finished.

 _But_ , Dean thinks as his chest heaves, breathing in thick heavy air, _that’s what you get when you’re housing the country’s next big shot lawyers or doctors_ — ** _entitlement_**.

Well, maybe entitlement was a too harsh word. _Privilege_ , perhaps? Or maybe _benefits_ would be more suiting? Whatever it was, Sammy was better off—leaving his mind to focus on the actual reason he was attending the university instead of the sweltering, relentless heat the city was prescribing its parasites.

Sighing, Dean stretches himself up to feel his muscles contracting and loosening beneath his skin as tension knots unfurl. After he’s cracked his neck left and then right, Dean pinches the bridge of his nose before suddenly running cold all over and instantly freezing—realisation dawning. With the speed of a sloth, Dean hesitantly inches one of his eyes open slightly and quickly surveys the room, his vision hovering over each of the open doors. No lights on, nothing out of place, no sound, nothing new.

Dean exhales deeply and drops his hand into his lap, his eyes closing again as he shakes his head in relief.

_No roommate. Thank god._

Although he’s alone in the apartment, a sense of embarrassment falls over Dean as he sits on the floor with his shirt having beendiscarded somewhere around the room. Sensing that it’s probably wise he get up and get on, he rises and begins to walk through the room, glancing around for his hidden garment. Eyeing his t-shirt hanging over the edge of the sofa, Dean heads to it and picks it up, holding the damp article between his fingertips. Even with the fan on, the heat in the room is still menacing and unforgiveable, and Dean knows that as soon as he throws his shirt back on, he’ll just take it off again—the stagnant air tepid around his every move.Thus, Dean heads to the room off to the left of the living room and chucks his shirt onto his bed, before stepping back over the threshold to the main room.

The lounge is entirely un-obnoxious—an eclectic mix of nothing much entirely. Two threadbare but comfy sofas sit at its centre with a scratchy woollen blanket thrown over each. Next to them lays a low table, nothing special, decorated with just a small potted plant—Sam’s idea of a housewarming gift. In the corner, off to the right of the window with the fan and up against the wall that partitions the room from Dean’s, sits a collection of classic rock-and-roll records and CDs with a pristine player for each medium beside it. Next to this, on the left, stands a solid yet unused brick fireplace—an original feature, no doubt. And, residing between that and the window, is an old TV—ticking off the final item on the living room inventory.

 _Home sweet home_.

The semi-ironic thought rises in Dean’s mind as he lifts his gaze to the kitchen, connected to the living room through the open-plan design of the apartment. The morning’s and the night before’s leftovers lay scattered over the counter-tops in piles of dirty dishes and uneaten food—the reason for the latter differing between the two brothers.

As he grabs the remote for the CD player, Dean presses the ON button and turns the volume up high just as the beginning notes of a classic rock anthem starts to trickles out of the speakers. Then, he then heads across the floor to the opposite side of the room with his eyes set on the sink, his chores in mind.

It’s therapeutic, almost, the mundane and repetitive motions in washing the dishes, piling them up, drying them, and placing them back in the cupboards overhead. There’s a solidity to it—a definite reality behind each movement, and a determined outcome. The dishes will become clean and fit back into the motions of the world until they’re needed again when, being removed from the cupboard once more, they’ll fulfil their purpose and thus retire anew. There’s a distinctness behind what occurs as it’s unchanging—something firm and certain to hold onto and recognise as familiar. Each bend of Dean’s elbow as he works his arm like a piston is safe and routine.

Dean places the last plate in the drying rack and pauses, resting his soapy palms on the edge of the sink and arching his back slightly as he looks down between his feet and thinks.

He was becoming emotional over dishes.

The line had been crossed.

Sam had been the final push.

“Tsk,” Dean mutters into the empty apartment as he rolls his eyes and straightens up. Grabbing the tea towel, Dean pats his hands dry before turning up the volume of the CD player once more in an attempt to drown out his own thoughts.

Stepping over to the counter top, Dean chuckles.

 _Dishes_ , he thinks. _That’s a new one_.

Sure, over the years his lack of having Sammy around had caused moments of weakness—moments when pseudo philosophy about the world and existence had eclipsed his thoughts and filtered through from his subconscious in a way of him trying to understand why they had been the ones to pull the short straw. But dishes? That was different.

Dean’s mind lights up with the image of what Sam’s face would be like if he recounted the most recent lapse in façade. But then, as quickly as it arose, Dean pushes it back down—the Winchester logic of being emotionally latent.

Instead, Dean lips form around words to mimic those drifting out of the sound system—lines about death, sex, morality, and captivity.

Holding a wet cloth in his hands, Dean focuses on wiping down the tops of the counters—the movement of his hands hitting in time to the beat of the song. Soon enough, his hips have joined in with his fluid movements and a gruff voice is tumbling from lips—low at first, but soon enough being belted out.

An Aerosmith song clicks on next and Dean’s intensity in his performance hitches up another level as his arms come into play and he eyes squeeze shut with fervour.

“ _Yeah, I don’t know if I can face the night. I’m in tears and the cryin’ that I do is for you…”_

Dean leaps up and swivels before landing two feet simultaneously on the floor in a solid _thud_. Leaning back, Dean immerses himself in the entrance of the guitar in the song as his own invisible and air-based guitar sit on his hips with his fingers inaccurately and mindlessly plucking—the cloth dropped from his grasp.

“… _Let’s break the walls between us. Don’t make it tough, I’ll put away my pride_.”

The invisible guitar swings from Dean’s grip as he moves to punch the air.

“ _Enough’s enough! I’ve suffered and I’ve seen the—”_

A muted cough comes from the doorway, followed by a monotone, “Hello.”

Dean jumps out of his skin at the noise and instantly swivels on his heels to face it; almost tripping over his ankles and going flying in the process. Luckily, just before he starts to fall, he lashes out and takes a hold of the counter top—his knuckles turning white as he hauls himself back into an upright position and stabilizes his feet. The music, loud and intrusive, seems to echo in silence as Dean glances up.

In front of Dean, a tall man with dark hair and blue eyes stands in the threshold of the apartment with a look of annoyed yet exhaustive confusion.

“Dean Winchester, I presume.”

The voice is deep, surprisingly so for the soft air that hums around the man like a magnetic force—and the words that are spoken are precise and clean cut; the essence of academics and high-class oozing from each syllable.

Dean gulps and straightens himself up even more before reaching to turn the music down. Placing the remote back on the counter-top, Dean nods and steps forward.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

As he reaches him, Dean stops a few feet in front of the other man and then stretches out a hand in greeting. “Mr. Novak? S’nice to meet you.”

The man glances down at the outstretched palm, perplexed at first, before wrapping his own hand around it and looking up, catching Dean’s gaze with his own. “Call me Castiel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies with having taken forever to post this update! Alongside a mental block on how to write what I wanted to write, I moved countries, started university again, got ill, and had a megaload of reading to do for my classes.
> 
> Also, sorry this chapter is a short one. I had originally planned for this chapter to be longer, however as I was writing the chapter became stupidly long - getting on for 7,000 words, instead of the 2,500 you have above. So I decided to publish it in breaks, however there was only one logical pause - here.  
> Although this sucks, it does mean that the next chapter should be up soon as I'm nearly finished with it. I have a couple of papers to write for uni, but Chapter 3 ought to be up at the weekend.  
> Next chapter has a lot of Cas (finally), and the story will finally start to warm up and fall into place, so stick around! :P
> 
> xoxo  
> Fiore


	3. Chapter 3

****“So, Cas,” Dean says, turning back around with heated cheeks and heading towards his bedroom. Castiel frowns slightly, but doesn’t say anything to Dean’s blatant disregard of his desired name. “Got much stuff? I’ll help you carry it up.”

Dean disappears inside of his room for a split second before returning to the lounge with a clean white t-shirt. In one swift movement, he unfolds it and pulls it over his head. Instant regret clouds his mind as his skin begins to prickle with heat; however the logic of Cas being a stranger quells his disdain. Slowly, the embarrassment of someone finding him parading around topless fades from his head, only to instantly be replaced with the mortifying reality that he had been caught in the midst of—essentially—karaoke.

 _Smooth. Great first impression. Sam would be proud_.

After internally rolling his eyes, Dean glances back at Castiel once more but it doesn’t seem as though he’s registered the previous comment. Instead, his eyes are slowly running along all the nooks of the empty apartment. Dean realises and swiftly launches into conversation, attempting to push the embarrassment from his mind.

“It’s kinda bare right now, but this is it,” he says, gesturing with his right arm to indicate the living room and kitchen. “And over here—” He steps backwards so Cas can see past him to the doors on the far right of the apartment, “—is where you’ll be living. The one on the left is my room, the middle is the bathroom, and the one on the right is your room.”

Castiel finally moves, stepping forward with a stoic face to inspect the far right door. With the other man’s silence beginning to get to him, Dean steps in line behind Cas and follows him. However, when they reach the open door and Cas goes through it, Dean pauses on its outskirts, unsure as to whether he should to enter as the area is no longer his but now the property of the quiet man stood before him.

So instead, forming a sombre resolution, Dean leans against the doorframe and continues his commentary with his arms crossed against his chest. “It’s a decent room—good size, couple of windows, wooden floors. The walls are painted to you can stick things up if you want. And the bed’s good—solid.” Dean pauses, and then expands on his comment. “My brother—he stayed in here for a little while. I hope you don’t mind.”

Watching Cas, there doesn’t seem to be any response until, after a quick glance in Dean’s direction, Cas nods hastily and then looks down at the bare bed beside him. “It’s fine,” he mutters lowly, however not irritably.

Dean nods his own head in response and doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he allows Cas to look around the room and just simply watches him from the doorway as he stands in the pale sunlight filtering in through the wide, square windows.

Although he’s fairly tall, Cas is shorter than Dean by a good couple of inches. Beneath a white button-up shirt and dark grey trousers, his frame is broad yet slight with strong edges but an inherent gracefulness in his movements, which is mirrored in his face. The bone structure is strong and angular—a clean jawline and a defined brow—however it’s all softened, like marble under silk.

As he runs his blue eyes over the components of the room, his lips stay pursed in thoughtfulness, to which Dean can’t help but smirk slightly.

“Y’know,” Dean mutters, just loud enough for Cas to hear but so softly that it doesn’t echo in the empty room. “I can’t tell if you like it or not.”

Cas flicks his gaze over to the door and watches Dean’s smirk turn into a questioning smile with one eyebrow raised. Widening his own eyes in realisation, Cas unpurses his lips and nods lightly, quickly.

“Uh…yes. It’s good,” he says, that surprisingly gruff voice returning once more. “It’s...” His eyes do a swift sweep of the room before returning to Dean once more, who squints his eyes slightly as the brilliant brightness of sun reflects off Cas’ shirt and makes him almost blinding. “…Sufficient,” Cas finishes.

Dean chortles and straightens up. “Sufficient, eh? Well, for this price, that’s all you’re gonna find in New York, so you’d better suck it up and take it.”

Cas steps forward, worry knotting his eyebrows as he lifts his hands in an apologetic manner. “No, no. I didn’t mean it like that.” His voice is quick yet hushed. “It’s appropriate. I like it. It’s good.”

Dean watches the other man squirm in discomfort from his belief that he’s somehow been offense, before he claps Cas on the shoulder with a chuckle.

“Great.” Dean nods at him with a satisfied pout. “Well… _welcome_. This’ll be your home for the next nine months.”

Stepping forward a few paces into the living room and then swivelling on his heels to glance back at Castiel who’s followed him into the space, Dean throws his arms up questioningly. “So, got anything outside? Let’s bring it up.”

Cas hesitates at first, almost as if he’s forgotten about his belongings, but then nods and swiftly exits the apartment without a word. With a humorous smirk laced along his lips, Dean follows on Cas’ heels and heads into the corridor before then descending the stairs; all the while watching the man ahead of him unbutton his cuffs and roll them past his elbows in a manoeuvre of preparation. The two men hit the bottom floor within a minute and quickly stride out into the street.

Cas half-skips down the apartment block stairs before heading to a gold hulk of a car, at which Dean pauses a few feet away from it and just stares. Oblivious, Cas unlocks the car and then opens the trunk, pulling two suitcases and two boxes from it before closing it once more. Then, he heads round to the opposite side of the car and pulls open a back door. Arching low, he leans in and pulls two duffle bags across the back seat and hauls them out of the car, one tumbling from his grasp slightly. He throws the lighter one over his right shoulder and then securely picks the other up with his left hand before nudging the car door shut with his knee. As he glimpses with intrigue at the other cars along the street, Cas edges his way back around his own car and onto the pavement, before dumping both bags next to the suitcases and boxes. Finally looking up, Cas rests his eyes on Dean and instantly notices the stare. In confusion, Cas follows Dean’s gaze to the car and then looks back again at his face. He tilts his head the side gently.

“What is it?” Cas questions, hesitantly.

Dean flick his eyes at Cas and then back at the car. A grin of epic proportions threatens to grace itself on his features and, fight as he will, the battle is soon lost and his lips grow taunt as they stretch up in amusement.

Dean raises one hand and cups his chin in an attempt to suppress the smile.

“It’s…uh, an interesting choice.” Dean’s voice is strained in humour as he speaks through his fingers.

Cas frowns, baffled for a few moments, before deciding to take the comment as a compliment. “Thank you,” he states, his voice unintentionally monotone.

Dean laughs, once, out-loud. “No…no worries,” he says, smirking and keeping his eyes glued to the car before him.

It shimmers under the afternoon sun so much so that it almost glitters. The gold paint coating the stocky frame of the car is thick and bold—acting as a great neon sign that points out the car’s existence. For sure, Dean knew that no one could ever lose a car like this, not even a moron—which you would have to be to invest in it.

However, Cas’ liking of the car seems so sincere that Dean dampens his merriment in response—heeding to Sam’s request and not wanting to come across as a jerk on the first day.

Dropping his gaze, Dean’s eyes come to focus on the pile of Cas’ belongings now residing on the New York sidewalk.

“That it?” he asks, an eyebrow raised as he looks up to Cas’ face. Cas nods. “Well, alright then. Let’s get started.”

It’s easy enough—moving Castiel in. The two men share the weight of the few belongings Cas owns between them as they shift them inside to the bottom corridor, and then make trips upstairs where they lay the stuff down in the bare living room. The only affliction to the affair is the sordid heat, which causes Dean to sweat like hell from the exertion. However Castiel, to the other man’s surprise, remains composed and collected with only the odd strand tumbling out of place of his deliberately messy-styled mop of black hair. A sheen of sweat has lightly developed across his forehead, but the hair around it stays dry and untouched—unlike Dean’s, whose short hair lays slick against his skull.

Dean shakes his head in disbelief as he watches Cas make his way up the stairs for the final time with not even the hairs at the nape of his neck damp. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs with a suitcase—the final piece of luggage—poised between his hands, Dean speaks up.

 “Man, y’know just looking at you is making me hot,” he chuckles, raising an arm to wipe his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Are you not boiling in that shirt? I mean, it’s in the nineties, dude.”

Cas pauses at the top of the flight of stairs, and then peers over his shoulder and down towards Dean. He eyes the man below before smiling slightly—almost apologetically. “No. I’m quite alright. I’m a relatively cold person the majority of the time, and so days like these don’t normally bother me.” He shrugs as best he can with his gaze levelled over one of his shoulders. “It’s rather the opposite actually—I like these types of days. It’s nice to be warm.”

Dean wraps his hands around the suitcase and begins heaving it up the stairs, the wheels clunking heavily against each step. “Yeah, well there is a difference between being warm and being a human version of a Hot Pocket. And this— _this_ —is definitely a Hot Pocket kinda day.”

Dean reaches the top of the flight of stairs and stops beside a once-more bewildered Cas.

The taller man rolls his eyes humorously. “Whatever, man. You do you. I’m just going to stand here being uncomfortable.”

Cas nods slightly, dropping his gaze and readjusting the duffle bag that sits on his shoulder, and in that movement Dean notices that the lightest hue ever to grace someone’s face is decorating the tops of Cas’ cheeks, turning them a dusty pink. Beaming internally, Dean feels a sense of accomplishment in his believed win of finding Cas’ humanity.

Cas’ gaze drifts from the floor to his suitcase, and then to Dean’s hand, wrapped around the handle, before finally skimming along his skin up to his face where the green eyes are set looking in his direction. He hesitates for a moment, but then turns around and shuffles up the next flight of stairs. Dean pulls the suitcase along and strides a few steps behind him.

“Y’know,” Dean says, thinking over Cas’ comments with his chest still mildly puffed in satisfaction. “When it gets to the winter, you just lemme know if you ever need the heating turned up, ‘kay? This place is ancient, so I’m guessing it’ll get kinda cold.”

Cas nods without turning around. “Mhmm.”

“And we have a fireplace. Dunno if it works or if it’s just a pretty face, but it might come in handy someday.”

“Thank you, Dean.”

Cas hits the top of the stairs and walks the stretch of hallway to the apartment door before he then slips inside it with Dean quick to follow. After shutting the door and rolling the suitcase into place next to the rest of Cas’ belongings, Dean steps back and assesses the view. Not much, but a fair amount.

“Need any help unpacking?” Dean asks as he rests his hands on his hips, knowingly moving within reach of the fan. It billows the damp shirt around his abdomen in well-welcomed relief.

Castiel shakes his head in response to Dean’s comment. “No, thank you. It won’t take long and I really ought to organise it myself.”

Dean takes his phone from his pocket and nods, before flinging himself down on the couch that is nearest the window and lies perpendicular to it. “Suit y’self. Lemme know if you need anything.”

Castiel mutters a gratitude as his eyes lay focus on the pile of his belongings at his feet. After pausing to think the situation over, he begins the slow process of sorting out his new life.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon, Dean makes his base camp on a sofa—trying to seem approachable yet out-of-the-way as Cas gets on with his business. Playing classic rock softly, Dean spends some of his time sending the odd text message to Sam to see how he’s getting on and flicking through a couple of old music magazines that lay scattered on the coffee table. However, the majority of the time is spent attempting to inconspicuously spy on his new roommate through his open bedroom door and as he wanders back and forth, carrying things from the living room to the bedroom.

There is definitely an aloof air about him, although whether it is deliberate indifference or just involuntarily withdrawal, it’s hard to tell—although Dean is beginning to lean towards the latter, especially with the friendly nods and minute smiles Cas sporadically sends his way when he catches Dean watching him.

Dean’s phone buzzes sometime after six o’clock.

“Hey Sam,” Dean answers, settling against the back of the couch after having risen to grab his phone from the coffee table. “How’s it going?”

“It’s good. My roommate turned up about half an hour ago. Nice guy, his name’s Kevin.” Dean hears his brother chuckle through the air waves. “Seemed kinda scared of me when we first met, actually. But he’s alright now.”

“Dude, you’re as scary as a puppy,” Dean laughs, his eyes following Cas as he appears in the open doorway, moving from one side of his bedroom to the other whilst carrying a small pile of folded clothes.

“Yeah, well, apparently I’m terrifying,” Sam replies, a grin obviously plastered on his face.

Cas disappears from view again, but then emerges from his room only milliseconds later.

“Right,” Dean responds to Sam.

Cas looks up from where is gaze was planted at the floor and nods a greeting at Dean before heading into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him. Dean’s gaze instantly drops as he refocuses on the conversation, his mind slowly registering that he’d missed Sam’s last comment.

“What? Sorry, I zoned out.”

“How’s your roommate?” Sam repeats, slowly mouthing the words into the microphone. “You hardly told me anything in your texts.”

“He’s difficult to explain,” Dean replies, choosing his words carefully as he lowers his voice in the hope that Cas doesn’t overhear the conversation.

“In what way?” Sam questions, his intrigue piqued.

Dean hesitates before responding. “He’s…interesting.”

“What, like bad-interesting or…?” Dean hears Sam’s bed-springs squeak; an obvious sign of Sam sitting up as his curiosity—and worry—rises.

“No, just…different.” Dean pauses to think. His eyes look to the closed bathroom door for inspiration. “Kinda quiet. Reserved, maybe.” His gaze drops to his feet. “Seems alright though. Nice, I think.”

On the other end of the line, Sam makes a rumble of approval in this throat. “Good. Seems like it’s worked out alright for us both then.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, nodding. “So where’s your roommate? I’m guessing he’s not in the room, what with you saying he’s scared of you and stuff.”

“Nah,” Sam chuckles. “He’s just getting ready. We’re gonna head out for dinner soon.”

“Oh,” Dean replies, his mood dampening slightly. “Right, of course.”

“Dean,” Sam says, hearing the change in his brother’s voice. “I need to get to know my dorm-mates.”

“It’s fine, Sam. Have fun.”

“I’ll catch-up with you tomorrow. We’ll go to a diner for breakfast or something.”

“Yeah,” Dean responds, nodding with satisfaction at the deal.

_Change is good._

“So, what about you? Gonna get to know… _Castiel_?” Sam voice rises as he questions the pronunciation.

“Yeah,” Dean replies to assure Sam that he was correct. “And maybe. Depends—haven’t checked if he likes burgers yet.”

Sam chortles. “Don’t be too hard on him if it turn out he’s not a fan. Remember, Dean, other food substances exist in the world.”

“ _Well_ …” Dean responds, jokingly questioning the validity to Sam’s statement.

Sam’s booming laughter bursts into Dean’s ear, which makes the older brother half-smile in approval.

Then, on the other end of the line, a muted voice appears and Sam pulls the phone away from his ear to talk for a few seconds—his voice becoming distant and echo-like to Dean. Half a minute later, Sam’s back on the line.

“Think we might head out now,” Sam says as the sound of him getting up and grabbing a few of his things paints the background to the end of the brothers’ conversation. “We wanna make sure we get there before it gets busy.”

Dean nods. “Alright. I’ll talk to you later then. Have fun.”

“Thanks, you too,” Sam smiles down the phone before the brothers exchange goodbyes and hang up.

As Dean sits back up to place his phone onto the table again, the bathroom door opens and Castiel reappears. Dean expects him to wander back into his bedroom and continue with the unpacking, and so as Cas instead walks towards him and then quietly sits on the other sofa Dean raises his eyebrows, surprised.

Cas doesn’t speak and so the room sits in hesitant silence for little while, before Dean smirks and asks, “You done then? With the sorting out.”

Cas moves his head to face Dean, a thoughtful look disappearing from his features as he shakes his head. “No. I still have a box left, but I decided I wanted a break. Only so much unpacking and putting away I can do before it all becomes a bit tedious.”

Dean throws his right arm over the back of the couch upon which he is sat and then raises the matching leg before placing his foot against the edge of the coffee table, his knee hinging with the short distance. “Tell me about it. Took about a week for me to finish moving in what little I have, and that was _with_ Sammy pushing me to sort it all out.”

Cas nods with a small smile gracing his face. “Was that who was on the phone? Sam…your brother?”

“Yeah. He just moved into a dorm at Columbia today. Freshman,” Dean explains.

“Oh,” Cas acknowledges, his smile deepening. “I study at Columbia too.”

“No kidding. What major?”

“Medicine.” Cas unclasps his fingers from how they had been interlinked on his lap and lets his hands relax as he begins to loosen up slightly, taking comfort in the casual and easy conversation.

Dean whistles through his lips and hitches up his eyebrows. “Impressive.”

“Thank you,” Cas replies, modestly. “What about you? You said on the advert for the apartment that you’re a student too.”

“Yeah. Undeclared at City College.” Dean’s voice lowers in mild embarrassment. It wasn’t exactly Columbia.

But Castiel just widens his smile and nods approvingly at him as he unconsciously leans forward in intrigue. “I’ve heard it’s nice there.”

Dean shrugs, however his unease dissipates. “It does the job.”

As Dean says the final word of his sentence, a low deep groan echoes from his abdomen and a sharp nag pulls at his stomach.

Dean laughs and sit back up to rest his elbows on his knees as he arches his back. “I’m starving,” he admits, a grin plastered to his face.

Castiel tries to hide a smile. “I couldn’t tell.”

Dean chuckles. “Well, I think I might head out. There’s an alright bar not far that does a good job cooking a burger.” He pauses as thinks over the conversation with Sam. “Wanna come?” he finally adds, looking at Cas questioningly.

Cas opens his mouth to responds, but then hesitates. His eyes stay glued to Dean’s for a few quiet moments, but then snap to the floor as he closes his mouth and shakes his head.

“I’m alright at the moment. Thank you anyway,” he replies, not looking up. With a thumb, he gestures over his shoulder to the open door of his bedroom. “I ought to finish…you know, no point in making it last longer than it ought too.” He slowly lifts his eyes to Dean’s face again. “But…thank you, though. For the offer. Another time.”

Dean nods and then stands up. “Sounds good.”

Edging around the couch, Dean heads into the kitchen and grabs his keys from the hook on the wall, grazing his eyes over the other set that hangs reservedly next to his own. He looks back at Castiel who has risen and now stands by the window, looking out at the world of low rooftops below. Swinging his set of keys around one of his fingers, Dean walks to the door and wraps his hand around the handle.

“Well then, see you later Cas,” he says, looking over his shoulder.

Castiel glances up from the window and nods a farewell. “Goodbye, Dean.”

 

* * *

 

 

The bar is crowded. A buzz of excitement and intoxication rises above the throng that’s spread from bar to booth in heady humid; far worse than that which had plagued Dean on his walk over. The day’s late sunshine attempts to penetrate the murky windows that line the front of the building but to no avail, and so the long room sits in warm darkness, breached only by the oil lamps that hang above the tables and counter. A musty tang of new sweat and cold spirits hangs in the lank air as Dean pushes past students both reunited and meeting for the first time—all of them starting the game early in their excitement for the first night of the semester.

Dean heads to the bar, irritably squeezing between groups too engrossed in one another to see him moving past them. Their laughter rings high, laced with alcoholic influence and the adrenaline of college. The men stand tall and proud, clasping some form of hard liquor in one hand with the other palm tucked into the pocket of their jeans, clammy from the heat but not letting their façade of masculinity be tainted by showing their discomfort. The women openly fan themselves in the heat as they pull their hair up and away from the backs of their necks into high ponytails and run the cold glass of their drink along their foreheads and chests, leaving little speckles of condensation trailing in its wake. All of them sigh and complain about the heatwave, but with grins gracing their features and chuckles clasping the tail-end of the words and tumbling out haphazardly and fervently.

It takes a few minutes of shoving and nudging this mass of intoxicated novices before Dean finally hits the last wave of people.

“’Scuse me,” he mutters gruffly, the heat and noisiness messing with his temperament.

The tall girl in front of him glances over her shoulder and smiles apologetically before turning to mutter something to her friend and then shuffling sideways to allow Dean to claim a small section of the countertop. Resting his elbows on the wooden bar, Dean casts his gaze around in search of the barman. Once he’s finally caught his attention—a grave challenge given the horde of restless students—Dean orders a beer and then grabs the stall next to him as the people beside him escape to the empty areas of the room. New faces swarm the space just as quickly as the old ones left.

Dean gulps down half of his beer, relishing the bitter depth of it, as he looks around the bar and mindlessly reminisces.

It’d been fun, these last few of years at university—especially freshman year. The alcohol, the girls, the parties every weekend. It’d been a rush, like one big hit of heroin after another. Yet, the thing with drugs like that is that they’re just a cover, just an escape. You get hooked, thinking that nothing could ever go wrong, as the world around you dissolves from your vision. But it’s still there, lying in wait for the clouded eyes to recover from your last shot of whatever you find to keep your mind numb. A pinch of amnesia here, a mild blackout there.

Dean had known why he was doing it. Some smaller version of him in the depths of his subconscious cried out, wanting change and wanting the world to stabilize again because this wasn’t the way to deal with it—with Sam and his dad, with everything happening inside of himself. But sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll had seemed like the answer for a while. The classic narcotic not so glamourous in real life.

The people he had dedicated his life to in the early years were now strangers. He wouldn’t recognise them if ever they walked by him in the college halls. They’d be another face in the crowd. Just features moulded under pliable skin. They would never be branded upon his mind like their affect had had on him.

Essentially, he had wanted to run away. He’d decided that enough was enough—he needed an escape, and moving to New York hadn’t fixed it. The physical distance meant nothing when the memories lived in his head and became buoyant whenever they desired—in the dorm, in class, on dates, whilst shopping. Time was irrelevant to the shadows of his mind. And so he had had to find a way to block his mind, to shut it off for just one goddamn minute. But then those minutes turned into hours and days and weeks, until everything melded together like a mirage of madness and blurred figures. Skin and teeth and needles and empty bottles. Flashes of his life, but not enough to make something coherent and tangible. Nothing to grasp a hold of a claim, saying _this is me, this is my life_. And now, thinking back, it dawned on Dean that it hadn’t been ‘fun’. It’d been hell on earth disguised as heaven. The numbness had been petrifying. Not knowing the time or even day hadn’t _fixed_ anything; it just made way for emotions to broil and fester like moulding food in abandoned homes.

And Sam—Dean’s recollections of Sam at this time were few and faded. Scratch card memories resting in toxic acid. Too fragile to try and recover more than what was already known and what could already be seen. It had been that which had knocked him off the edge; that had hit him so hard that he’d awakened and realised that things had to change. He couldn’t be the older brother if he wasn’t there anymore—if he was mentally off somewhere living the life he’d always dreamed but knew was never possible. Yes, the escape was good, but only for so long. You had to retain who you were, or else you would be lost entirely forever.

Dean’s gaze comes back into focus on the bottle in front of him. He lifts one hand and runs the pad of his thumb along the rim of it as the memories of his last couple of years finally began to fade from his head. He glances up at the clock hiding amongst the liquor bottles lining the wall. He’d been out an hour and now three empty bottles sat before him. Sighing in frustration at himself, Dean shakes his head and lowers his gaze to the other side of the bar, where it rests upon a blonde with a large smile on her face. Dean tilts his head to the side slightly as the image settles in his mind and he realises that he recognises her. He filters through the one-night stands he’s had before but she doesn’t match up, unsurprisingly—more than half of those he can’t remember the face of anyway.

The girl turns away from her friends and back to the bar to grab her drink, but she must feel Dean’s eyes upon her because she looks up and catches his gaze. Dean automatically begins to look away apologetically—not in the mood for flirting tonight—but then she smiles at him in recognition and it finally clicks as to who she is.

Less than a minute later, Dean’s on her side of the bar and walking the final few steps towards her with his drink resting in his hand. As she sits on a bar stall in a soft grey tank top and worn blue jeans with a fair few rips, she eyes him up; a smirk lacing her features as her friends talk amongst themselves just behind her.

“Ah, the chick with the good taste in music,” Dean says smoothly as he comes to a stop—turning on the charm instinctively even though he doesn’t intend to use it.

The girl grins and her face lights up in humour. “And look, the old guy.”

Dean frowns, taken aback. “Old guy?” he questions. “I think you have me confused—”

The blonde laughs. “Hardly. You stuck out like a sore thumb back in Krip.”

“Krip?”

“Kripke,” she states. “The dorm.” Dean’s face remains blank and so she nods before glancing at her own bottle of beer and running her fingertips down its length. “I’m guessing you aren’t living there, then?” She glances back up.

“Not really my scene. Just a bunch of kids,” Dean jokes, winking at her. The blonde laughs and then Dean shakes his head gently, going back to the proper conversation. “I was helping my brother move in,” he admits with a small shrugs as he takes a swig of his drink.

The girl nods slowly but doesn’t say anything. Instead, in the few seconds following Dean’s remark, she begins to scan his face; running her gaze along each figment of his features, right down to the pores, exposing Dean like an upturned book as the buzz of the bar becomes dull around them. “Sam…right?” She says softly after a few moments, her eyes still leisurely skimming Dean’s bone structure with her head tilted gently to the side. “That’s who your brother is.”

Awe-structure, Dean leans back with eyes wide open and mouth hanging loose. “Y-yeah,” he replies, stumbling over his words.  “How’d you know that?”

“Just a guess…” She blinks and looks at Dean as one whole being again. A small smile curves her mouth upward. “Well, that and I saw you head into his room carrying half a ton in bed sheets and textbooks.”

Dean falters and then lets his features reform into a smirk. “Clever,” he chortles, with a quick raise of his eyebrows and roll of his eyes. He shakes his head and extends a hand. “Dean Winchester.”

The girl grins at him and takes his hand in her own. “Joanna Beth Harvelle,” she replies. “But you can call me Jo.”

The man beside Dean shifts before then moving away entirely, and so Dean takes his space and leans against the bar, watching as he swills the remainder of his drink around in the bottle.

“What’re you doing here then?” he asks. “Aren’t you a Freshman?” He lowers his voice for the last half of his question even though the barman is dealing with customers on the other side of the room.

Nodding, Jo says, “A fake I.D. has its perks from time to time.”

Dean laughs. “God, I remember those days.”

“And you were _surprised_ when I called you an old guy…” Jo humorously lectures him with one eyebrow raised. “Go on then, spill. What year are you?”

Dean downs the rest of his drink and then reaches over one shoulder to place it on the counter. “Senior.”

Jo nods, seemingly impressed. “Well, I’ll refrain from calling you an old guy until you’ve graduated then. Deal?”

Dean tilts his head to the side, openly smirking. “Seems as though you think we’ll keep in touch.”

Jo half-smiles at him, harmlessly flirting back to the same degree. “I feel like I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, Dean Winchester.”

“Only if you’re lucky,” he grins, winking.

Jo throws her head back and laughs as Dean calls over the barman and orders another round for the two of them.

As the second bottle is placed in front of them and he nods a thanks, Dean says, “He’s isn’t here, is he? Sam.”

His gaze flicks around the bar, still too crowded to really see clearly.

“Nah, he’s illegally getting his buzz in the safety of his dorm,” Jo replies, picking up her drink and downing a third of it straight off.

Dean’s eyebrows slowly drift upwards as he watches her. “You got practice or something, Freshman?”

Jo grins. “My mum owns a bar a few blocks away. I’ve been helping out ever since I became a teenager.” She tips her head back and downs another third smoothly. Settling her gaze back on Dean again, she innocently says, “I had to somehow learn how to hold my own against all the customers’ challenges. They see a small blonde girl and don’t think much.” She winks. “Had to teach them a thing or two.” Tilting backwards one final time, Jo downs the rest of her drink before placing the empty bottle gently on the countertop with a wide grin.

Dean returns it as he shakes his head, impressed. “Kinda badass,” he admits.

“I know,” Jo replies, her smile wide as she stops bothering to be flirtatious anymore and just simply enjoys herself and the company.

The conversation continues for only a couple of minutes more before Jo’s friends grab a hold of her attention and tell her that they’re moving on to another location.

As Jo stands up, she smiles at Dean. “See you around sometime, Winchester.”

Albeit deflated from her leaving, Dean nods and waves with warmth in his eyes. “See ya, Freshman.”

Jo rolls her eyes and laughs before swiftly following her friends out in the night without looking back.

Dean glances up at the time again. _Fuck_ , he was starving. It was nearly eight o’clock. Once again, Dean grabs the attention of the barman but this time orders a burger off the menu alongside his beer. Then, he scouts out the booths in an attempt to find an empty one so that he doesn’t have to sit at the bar to eat. Luckily, he finds a small one at the back with its previous occupants getting reading to leave, and so he hangs back slightly before then claiming it as soon as they’re a few metres away. Dean sits on the far side of the booth so that he faces the room and, as his eyes are taking in the inebriated view, he notices the small TV that sits above the bar playing an ice hockey game. Chuckling internally, Dean settles down to watch the match with the intent on picking up the rules and regulations, as well as a few techniques for when he finally gets on the ice.

The burger turns up about half an hour later and it quickly disappears, along with a couple more hockey games and a few more bottles of beer. It’s only when Dean casts his gaze around the emptier bar sometime around ten that he notices a familiar form. Shorter and simultaneously slight and stocky. Broad yet narrow shoulders. Firm yet soft. Tall and graceful, elegant and awkward.

Leaving his half-empty beer bottle on the table so to stake his continuous claim, Dean gets up and with a small smile heads over to his roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the week long delay - I'm an assbutt, I know.  
> But, this chapter is about twice the length of the other two so hopefully that makes up for the delay ;) :P  
> As always, comments and kudos are super appreciated! :)
> 
> The next chapter is half written, but I've got a bit of uni work to do, so my current plan is for it to be up next weekend, however it may not be until the following week/weekend. Don't hate me!
> 
> Don't forget to follow me on tumblr and instagram so we can be supernatural buddies :)
> 
>  
> 
> 'Til next time!  
> xo  
> Fiore

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction ever, so all constructive comments and criticism is very much appreciated. Lemme know what you think so far!
> 
> Also, the wonderful cover art was done by the instagram user @demon.addiction so go follow them! :)
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. [24/04/15]:  
> I'm so sorry that I haven't posted in forever. The end of the semester has been ridiculous and I've been completely swamped with school work. But in a couple of weeks time I ought to be able to start back up again with my writing and get the next chapter out to you :) in the mean time I've been writing a super short college finals destiel fic. It's almost done so I'll be posting that soon, both on here and on my tumblr, so make sure to check it out!  
> Cheers! :)


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